


The Sound of Silence

by Shewolf_of_highgarden



Series: The Many Husbands, Wives, and Lives of Arya Stark [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Domeric-centric, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Underage, Roose Bolton A+ parenting, ned never becomes Hand of the King
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shewolf_of_highgarden/pseuds/Shewolf_of_highgarden
Summary: Domeric does not really remember what Mother looked like, but he does remember what she sounded like. He does remember when the castle became as quiet as falling snow.





	The Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> So i found this on my computer and decided to finish it up.  
> Quick note:  
> \- We dont have a definite age for Domeric, so i'm guessing he is around the age of Willas Tyrell. So Domeric is  
> about eight-ten years older than Arya in this fic. Arya is 16 going on 17 when they get married.  
> -Also, i was not sure if i should tag it or not since it is not explicit, but Roose is a bad parent. His punishments are pretty harsh by most standards. Again it is not really excpilict, but mentions of his parenting methods come up. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

 

  **I.**

At nine Domeric thinks that he can remember his mother, though she has been gone for at least five years. He cannot be sure as time has made the images blurry and he no longer can picture her fully. He remembers pieces of her that he must put together to try to form an image of the woman who gave birth to him.

He remembers her smile with the most clarity. A soft, sad smile that had been the smile he loved most in the world for as long as she had lived. He has a vague memory of a melody that comes into his head when he lays in bed at night, staring into the darkness.

The melody plays in his head as he wonders through the quiet Dreadfort. The keep is as silent as Father, as silent as the crypt where his mother lies. The servants keep their voices low, rarely are dogs heard barking, and some claim that not even birds dare to sing near the keep. Father likes quiet and so Domeric is quiet. It is quiet or face Father’s cold wrath.

That is one of the clearest of Domeric’s memory; the one where he heard Mother whisper to Father sounding angry, but mostly pleading. He knows he had been playing at being a dragon, the idea of flight an amazing one at his young age, he knows he had to be younger than five, and he ran through the halls breathing fire. He remembers Father grabbing him about the shoulders, very coldly inquiring what Domeric thought he was doing.

As Father leads Domeric away, surely to some punishment, Mother shows up. She is not smiling now or humming some tune, now she is frowning. She whispers to Father, her voices never raise but it is clear she is displeased…and scared.

“Roose, he is just a little boy. Domeric meant no harm, he was only playing.” Mother said softly, laying her hand on Father’s arm.

“Of course he meant no harm, but he must learn to obey. We do not live in the woods and we do not act as if we do,’ after a moment Father adds, ‘I am not going to hurt him, Bethany, he is my son.”

If anything else was said Domeric does not hear. The rest of the memory is being told to stay in his room for the rest of the day and not being able to leave until the morning. He remembers his Father speaking to him the next morning, telling him that should he act in such a way again he will be left in his room for a week with no candles.

Domeric learned to be quieter when he played after that. Father never made threats he did not mean.

If Mother stood up for him again he does not remember well. He does not remember his parent’s relationship well, but he does not recall them ever fighting. He does remember the look on Father’s face as the put Mother into the tomb. He looked somber…or at least more somber. He stands and watches as they close up the tomb and Domeric stands next to him, wondering if he should take his Father’s hand. Wonders if he starts crying Father will understand, even though Father despises fear. He does not take Father’s hand, nor does he let the tears leave his eyes.

Father turns away before the men are even finished. Domeric stays, though, stays until the end humming quietly to himself. When he goes back inside his eyes remain dry until he passes his mother’s sewing room where he would sit at her feet while she told him stories and sang to him as she sewed. When he passes it and realizes that he will never pass it to find her in it again he starts to cry. Even in his grief though, he remembers to keep quiet even when he makes it to his room.

Domeric does not really remember what Mother looked like, but he does remember what she sounded like. He does remember when the castle became as quiet as falling snow.

**II.**

When Domeric turns four and ten he has been serving as a page for his Aunt Barbaery for four years. He feels that the time spent there might be the nicest four years he has had in his entire life. He loves and respects Father, but he is so cold, so quiet, so unlike Aunt Barbaery who likes to fill the silence with words and is full of tales. He will not admit it, but he very much likes the way that his aunt is so free with her affection for him.

“You have to be the most competent page in all of the North, Dom, you learn so quickly. That’s your mother showing through, I know it.” Aunt would say over meals when discussing how his day went.

He accepts her compliments eagerly, it is good to be told these things. It also helps him to worry less. When he returns home to visit with Father, Father tests him. What did Domeric do with his time? What did he read? Who did he befriend? What did the household say of his actions? Was he actually being useful? Did he think he was doing honor to the name of Bolton?

It felt good to look into Father’s eyes, his own eyes staring him, and say that yes, he was indeed doing well. He does not, however, say that Aunt tells him he is doing well. When he had gone home after six moons of being a page for a quick visit, Father had tested him. With pride, he had told Father, “Aunt Barbaery says I am doing very well and improving every day.”

“That is all well and good, Domeric, but Barbaery is your aunt. The woman’s softness for her kin may not allow her to tell the whole truth. What do others say?”

So Domeric told Father everything the knights and the men at arms said of him and Father had comments for all of those as well. At the end, though Father graced him with a rare soft smile. “I am glad you are doing well, my son.”

Along with the praise he enjoys Barrow Hall itself. The Dreadfort will one day be his keep, but he has a soft spot for Mother’s childhood home. Everything there is in soft brown and muted yellow. The colors are warm and comforting. He is still a bit disconcerted when he sees the Bolton banners hanging in the Dreadfort. Unlike at Barrow Hall where the banners are obviously large pieces of embroidered cloth that have been hung, the banners in the Dreadfort appear to be an attached part of the keep. The pink background showing the meat inside and the flayed man acting as the blood. Sometimes he thinks it looks like someone has tried to flay the castle at night and he hates to admit that some nights it makes him afraid to leave his chambers, scared to see the walls bleeding.

More than anything he loves the people and the life of the keep. He wonders if Father spent more time in places like Barrowtown he would not be so solemn. Maybe if he spent more time in places full of life it would start to affect him. Or it would not. Domeric wonders if the leeches take away Father’s stronger feelings. He never shouts or rages or laughs loudly or squeals. Maybe the leeches take all of those reactions. Domeric fantasizes about the hiding the leeches, but he knows better. The last time he had touched with them Father made the Maester put one on Domeric. It was not something he ever wanted to experience again.

Mayhap it is for the best that Father does not visit Barrowtown. If he came he would bring the leeches and the less Domeric has to think about the leeches the happier he is.

**III.**

“You play better than Prince Rhaegar did.” Lord Redfort says after he hears Domeric play the harp.

Domeric picked up harp playing while in Barrowtown, but true improvement came when Father sent him to the Vale. The North is not exactly know for its harp playing, there are certainly better teachers in the South.

“Thank you, my lord.” Domeric says.

He cannot speak to how well Prince Rhaegar strummed his harp, but he will take the compliment none the less. He already has received greater compliments on his harp playing from his Father. Father is rare with praise and quick to point out flaws, but he seemed to enjoy when Domeric played the harp.

The Dreadfort never really welcomed singers or mummers. Singers in general do not really visit up North, no matter the house. Throughout his life he can remember mayhap two or three singers that came to Barrowtown or the Dreadfort. Father had very little patience for them and Aunt Barbery did not really see the need for such an expense. Besides why did they need a singer when Domeric was learning the harp?

“You will have to play at my wedding.”

“Are you marrying, Lord Horton?”

“Oh, aye. One last bride, a maiden from the Riverlands.”

“I wish you well in your marriage.”

“If you truly wish me well, boy, you will play for us.”

“As you command, Lord Horton.”

“You do not have to play for him, you know.” Jon says, materializing beside Domeric once Lord Horton has wondered off.

Domeric gets on with all three sons of Redfort, but it is Jon who he spends the most time with. They are of an age and spend the most time together. The middle son, Creighton, is off serving at the Vale for the Hand Jon Arryn. He sends back ravens about the men who he rides with and the honor of working along side men like Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. The eldest son, Jasper, is usually busy following his father around to learn the way of the Vale.

“Its fine. What is the point of practicing if I never play?”

“Fine. Play for the man, but by the time you start he is going to furiously drunk.” Jon says with a long suffering sigh.

“How would you know? You have never attended a wedding for your father.” Domeric points out, smiling.

“Because I have been to the feasts. You remember his last name day celebration. Thank the old gods and the new that we do not live in the Eyrie. He would have fallen to his death by now. You should thank the gods that you do not have to deal with such things.”

That is true. Roose Bolton does not get drunk, if he ever has Domeric has never heard of it. When Domeric sees the lords of the Vale and how in their cups they can get, he thinks that Father must have been drunk at least once.  Then he thinks about his composed father and he cannot picture it. He can’t see Father red cheeked and slurring, as he tries to grab on to a nearby serving girl. He cannot picture being happy to live in a keep that would keep him from falling.

He cannot even picture having rowdy feasts at the Dreadfort. They had feasts, of course, but they were subdued affairs. The bannermen knew better than to drink too much and nothing of particular note happened. They ate, they drank some, and sometimes someone would recite a bit of history or something. Father liked stories well enough, but he was more fond of ones based in fact rather than fantasy. When Domeric came home with his harp, he found that Father liked that well enough. He liked it better than fairy stories.

Sometimes he would have Domeric play a bit when he did work in his solar or over the nooning meal. It made Domeric proud that he can do something to make Father happy with him. He likes that the harp breaks the silence of the Dreadfort and that Father likes it. Father is nothing like Lord Horton or many of the lords he has met. He prefers silence and solicitude than forced platitudes. The fact that Father asks him to play the harp shows he is not immune to the silence. It shows that even Father needs something to break up the moments of solitude and silence. The fact that he asks Domeric to do it means something, it must mean that he enjoys Domeric’s presence. If a harp is what it takes to connect to Father, then he is going to practice it when he can. He wants to connect with Father, but he has spent so long being a page and squire, that he will not give up becoming a knight to become a singer. Besides Father would not have sent him to lord Redfort if he wanted a singer.

**IV.**

He’s twenty and five when he returns to the Dreadfort. He has spent the majority of the past years serving as a knight of the Vale under Lord Redfort. Then Father calls him home. It is not as though he has not been home in the past years, he has, but it has been a rarity. It stings vaguely that Father does not call on him more often, but a larger part of him is relieved. He always misses home until he is back. Once he is there he misses the warmth of the Vale and the noise of Lord Redfort’s keep. At the Dreadfort even plucking at his harp sounds as if someone is yelling. Sometimes Domeric feels like yelling himself, but the bright pink of the walls always remind him not too. There is no Mother to plead for a lesser punishment, there has not been for years and years.

When he returns North, he believes it to be a visit. He thinks that he shall stay for a few weeks, a moon at the most, before returning to the service of Lord Redfort. Lord Redfort is a good man and a good teacher. He admits that what he knows of being a lord he has learned from him. Father, however, has other plans for Domeric. He is to take a wife.

“A wife?”

“Yes, Domeric, a wife. Did you plan to stay a bachelor for the rest of your days?”

“No, Father. I am merely surprised.” Domeric says, he bites his cheek to keep from snapping. Did Father not think to mention it in one of his ravens? Infrequent they may be, but Father could have written.

Father studies him with pale eyes, Domeric’s eyes staring back at him. When he was younger, people found his eyes off-putting and he never really understood why. Whenever Father levels a look at him Domeric thinks he understands. Father’s eyes always feel as though they can see inside of him as if he turns into the flayed man on the banner. Skinned men have no secrets.

“You will wed the younger daughter of House Stark, the Lady Arya.”

“The younger?”

“Has your time in the Vale made you simple, Domeric?”

“No, Father,” Domeric says as though he is nine again and not a man grown.

“Then you will cease making me repeat myself.”

“Yes, Father.”

“As I was saying. You are to wed Arya Stark in a moons time. House Stark shall be here within a fortnight.” Father says and judging by his tone he believes this to be a suitable place to dismiss Domeric. Dismiss him as if he has not just upended Domeric’s whole life. This meant he would not be returning to Lord Redfort, he would stay in the North. He would stay in the North and wed this Stark maiden and do his duty as Lord of the Dreadfort. He had wanted to continue jousting and riding in the lists, he was not yet ready to return to silence.

“What is she like? Arya Stark?”

“A wild thing, from what I recall. I am sure you can bring her to heel.”

With that Father does dismiss him. Domeric is making his way to his rooms when her detours to the stables. He may be staying North, but he can still ride. As long as he continues to ride he can still be in the lists. House Manderly is known to have some tourneys when the mood strikes and he can always visit the South. Just because he has a wife does not mean that he cannot travel. She can attend the tourneys as well. He would not leave her all alone with Father, especially not if she was wild like he said.

Granted, Father’s version of wild was not terribly wild. When Domeric ran through the halls, Father proclaimed he acted like a Wildling and made him spend the entire day in the woods, until he swore to act in a way befitting a son of House Boltom. Wildings were not allowed inside. Arya Stark simply may talk too much or walk too fast and Father interpreted that as wild. Whatever the case, Domeric doubted he would ever feel comfortable leaving his wife to stay with Father. He would never leave someone to deal with Father all alone.

**V.**

He sees Arya Stark before he ever properly meets her. The Stark are due to arrive soon, but he goes for a ride anyway. Riding always calms his nerves. Lords and ladies from the North have been flocking to the Dreadfort in order to attend the wedding and it is putting his teeth on end. Even Auntie Barbery, who he would always love best, was grinding on his nerves. Ever since she arrived at the Dreadfort she had done little else, but rail against House Stark and how no maiden of theirs would ever be good enough for him.

“Brandon Stark broke his word to me, Domeric.”

“I remember, auntie.”

“Brandon Stark never wanted to wed that Tully-bitch, but he rode off for her did he not? I begged him to run off with me, but he spoke of nothing but honor.”

“You’ve said, auntie.”

“Then my sweet Willem rode off because that wolf-bitch ran off with the dragon prince. Starks bring nothing but trouble, Domeric. Do not let this girl ruin you.”

“I will not, Aunt Barbery.”

That had been going on ever since Aunt Barbery had arrived. None of the men who had shown up to the Dreadfort had any actual news of his bride-to-be either. Those who would were traveling with the Stark host and were not due to appear until close to the evening. That did him little good.

He has stopped to give his horse a rest when there is a commotion different than the usual sounds of the forest. It sounds as if a herd of elephants is coming through the woods. Mayhap mammoths have come South from beyond the Wall. As the commotion gets closer he can make out the sounds of commotion, people yelling at one another. There are hoots and hollers and the beating of hooves. Domeric has to move quickly as to not get trampled.

“I’m going to beat you!” a voice cries, just beyond the trees where Domeric and his horse sit.

A laugh is offered in return and all of a sudden a girl is racing past him, “Not today, little brother!”

She is looking behind her, grinning at the body of the first voice. Long dark hair, surprisingly unbraided, hits her in the face but laughter shines in her grey eyes.

“Dammit, Arya!” a third voice cries as a young boy with a shock of red hair rushes by him, followed closely by an older boy with auburn hair, a girl, a boy, another redhead who was still shouting for everyone to slow down, more girls, one of who has green hair.

_Arya._

The name startles him. When he saw the first girl he did not think of her as his bride. Father had not told him much of her, but he expected her to be older. She looked young, or at least younger than him. Even some of the people in the group trying to keep up with her looked to be her elder.

At least she is good on a horse, he tells himself. That is something they can have in common, at least. He is also starting to wonder if Father was not correct in his assessment of her. The first girl to ride by him, Arya, did not ride like any lady he knew. Well, maybe she did. He remembers Aunt Barbery declaring that he was better on a horse than even that Lyanna Stark who was so good on a horse that she even looked like one. Maybe all of the daughters of House Stark rode the same way.

Either way, Domeric turns his horse around. He needs to make it back to the Dreadfort before the Stark hosts do or else Father will be wroth with him. The last thing  he needs is Father’s anger now. He has enough to worry about, but at least now he knows he has something in common with his bride. They may actually get along.

Arya Stark is determined that they will not be getting along. She refuses to look at him during the feast of her own free will and when she is forced to she glares or look someplace just past him. She is certainly displeased by this arrangement. Domeric half wants to tell her that this certainly was not his idea. He wants to be in the Vale or at a tourney or something. Not at this feast filled with his father and a young glaring bride.

Aunt Barbery looks half as ferocious as the girl, herself. She takes any chance she can to make sure Lord Stark sees her glare. She refuses to even speak to the Lady Catelyn. Lady Catelyn may have been insulted if she’d had the time to even notice Barbery doing her best impression of a snark. Instead, she is focused on her herd of children. Arya and her elder sister, Lady Sansa, doing little else but bicker as if they are still children and Arya is not about to be the new Lady of Bolton and Sansa is not wed to the heir of House Blackwood. Their brothers do little to help. Ser Robb tries to help his Mother and Father by taking his sisters in hand, but that appeared to be impossible. He would start to try to mediate only to get involved in the fighting, fights that did not even seem to be about anything to Domeric. Brandon did not really get involved with his sisters's squabbles, too busy trying to sneak off with Lady Meera Reed and her brother Jojen. Rickon did get involved in his sisters squabbles in order to instigate chaos. The fight would seem to be winding down when a word or two from Rickon would stir the girls up again.

“Why does Bran get to go, though? I could help Uncle Edmure too!”

“We are not having this conversation here, Arya.”

“But-”

“Listen to your father.”

“F-”

“Honestly, Arya. Why must you always argue? Can you not even wait until we have left the table?”

“No one is speaking to you, Sansa!”

“Well, you are speaking so loudly that you might as well be.”

“Listen you stupid-”

“I want to squire for Uncle Edmure too!”

“Shut up, Rickon!” Arya snaps as Brandon bursts out a “Too bad!”

“Enough! All of you!”

“Shut up, Robb!”

“You cannot speak to me that way!”

Bryden Blackwood seems very nonplussed by his good families actions. He acts as if he is a man who has seen this all before and perhaps he has. He has been wed to Lady Sansa for two years now, so he must have seen the sisters of Stark bicker before. Also, if Domeric remembers correctly, Brynden is the eldest of five or six. He is probably used to these sorts of things. Domeric is the only child of House Bolton, so arguments were a rarity growing up. When he went to Barrowtown he would have light arguments with his cousins and while in the service of Lord Redfort  he would share banter with the other knights, but it was nothing like this. There was no sibling to antagonize or be antagonized by. Even if there was he is sure that Father would never have allowed them to behave as the children of House Stark did. Words spoken out of turn were never welcome and were usually met with isolation or a glare. Lord Stark did not appear furious, tired and exasperated and frustrated to be true, but not there is none of the cold fury he associates with Father.

None of the lords and ladies and knights who came with House Stark seem all that surprised either. Disapproving, yes, but not surprised. Conversations continue and people continue to eat. The younger ones that he saw on the horses earlier seem more amused than anything as if the Stark children were hired mummers.

“Of come off it, Arya, you are the size of a tourney sword. You could not lift one.” Lady Wylla Manderly, the girl with green hair, laughs.

“Hush, Wylla.” Lady Wynafred, the wife of Robb Stark, tells her sister.

“Yes, Wylla, _hush_ ,” Arya says with a huff.

“She’s still waiting on a second growing season.” Rickon pipes up.

“You are still waiting to get one at all!” Arya says.

“I’m taller than you!”

“Barely. Lyanna is still taller than you.”

“She’s older! So?”

“It’s the bear in me,” the Lyanna in question says dryly.

“You should not speak about people as if they are not sitting there, Arya,” Sansa says, taking a delicate sip of her wine.

“Sansa! No. One. Is. Speaking. To. _You_!”

“Enough,’ Lord Stark says, not loudly but firmly enough that all of his children and those around them stop speaking, ‘Robb, stay out of this. Sansa, stop antagonizing your sister. Arya, I will be speaking to you later. Bran, stop trying to leave the table. Rickon, stop antagonizing your siblings. The rest of you need to stop adding kindling to the fire.”

“Yes, Father”

“Yes, Lord Stark”

“Roose, I apologize for my children. They apparently have forgotten themselves.”

“Think nothing of it, Ned. They are young, they will learn. Youth is such a hard thing to control.” Father says, and from the smirk, Domeric knows he is patronizing. The implication is clear. If the Warden of the North cannot control his household how can he hope to control the North?

Everyone seems sufficiently cowed, though, or at least sulky. Lady Arya does not look cowed, she seems momentarily subdued. Her eyes could tell anyone that her fight is far from over. Domeric wonders if there is even going to be a wedding.

“I’m not antagonizing anyone!’ Rickon announces to the outrage of those around him, ‘I can be a squire too! Like Bran.”

The volume is ramping up again and the vein in Lord Stark’s temple is starting to become visible.

“You could squire for me, Rickon. I still plan to ride.” Domeric says before he really thinks of it.

That manages to get everyone at the high tables to quiet down and look at him. Lord and Lady Stark look surprised, Arya looks pretty suspicious considering he made an innocuous off, and Father looks surprised. Rickon, however, looks elated.

“Truly? I can be a great squire, I promise!”

“I believe that, Rickon.”

“Arya. _Arya,’_ Rickon not-whispers, ‘You should be nicer to him.”

The “thwack” that comes from Arya hitting Rickon on the arm, is dulled by the noise of the Great Hall resuming.

It snows the day he marries Arya of Stark.

**VI.**

Domeric is so used to the silence of the Gods Wood that the noise of the guests in it is almost off-putting. Father always held that the Godswood was a place for silent reflection, though as a child Domeric would play in it. When he knew Father would not be paying attention he would climb the Weirwood and battle imaginary foes under the branches.

Now he stands under the branches waiting for the bride to make it to the wierdwood. He’s fairly sure that people have been taking bets on whether or not she will show. Most seem to believe that she will try to run for it. Some argue that she has tried before and failed why would not be any different? Honestly, Domeric is not even sure to expect at this point. Aunt Barbery’s whispering has not helped things either. He loves his aunt dearly, but he would like her a lot more if she would stop going on and on about Stark girls who run off when they do not wish to do their duty.

“Count yourself lucky, sweet nephew, there are no dragons for the little hellion to run off with.” Aunt Barbery had said while she broke her fast with Domeric and Father that morning.

“She would not get far,” Father said evenly, the thought of the bride running off not even a worry for him.

Arya’s family does not appear to share his father’s clam demeanor. Lord Stark, Lady Catelyn, and Lady Sansa are nowhere to be seen but Brandon is speaking with Meera and Jojen, seeming calm enough but keeps looking over his shoulder. Robert seems a bit more worried. Wynafred speaks with her sister while Robert keeps looking towards the entrance of the Godswood, clearly waiting for something to happen. For the call of his Father to announce the start of the ceremony or word that Arya Stark stole a horse and rode far away. From what he has heard of her and what he has overheard from her (she still refuses to truly speak to him) she is the best rider of the Stark children. She, and some of her companions brag that she is the best rider in the North. There is no man or woman who could beat her on horseback.

“Arya is gonna show up.” A voice says from behind him and he turns to see Rickon Stark, staring expectantly up at him. Ever since the night before, when Domeric agreed to let the boy squire for him, Rickon has made a point of popping up out of nowhere. Rickon, bounces on the balls of his feet.

The boy’s exuberance makes Domeric feel better about deciding to take the boy on. Father had not been pleased. He made it clear after the feast that Rickon Stark would be Domeric’s responsibility. The way he spoke of the boy made it sound as if Domeric had brought a Shadowcat cub home instead of agreeing to allow a boy of ten and one to squire for him. He does not regret his decision, though. Rickon will be able to be a squire and mayhap his presence will help to ease Arya’s transition into life at the Dreadfort. It would be like having his own little brother. Domeric had elder brothers who died too soon, but there was no one after him. Having Rickon around could make up for that. At least between the Rickon and Arya the Dreadfort would not be as quiet as a tomb.

“Do you think so?” he asks Rickon.

“Aye. She’s angry, but she would not hurt Father by running off. She’ll take her anger off on you probably, but worry not! I will protect you.”

“You have my thanks. I hope you will help me to at least befriend your sister.”

“I can try, but Arya is stubborn. You will have to work hard.”

“I will endeavor to do so.”

Rickon is opening his mouth to say something when Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa appear, coming to stand next to the rest of their family members. Lady Catelyn gives tight lipped smile to Domeric and motions for Rickon to come to her.

When Domeric glances over to where his own family stands, he finds little comfort for his nerves. Aunt Barbery is busy going between glaring at Lady Stark and pointedly not looking her way. Father brings some comfort. Sometimes he finds Father’s constant calm unnerving, but now he finds some comfort in it. Father does not appear to be worried that something could wrong, for Father it seems as if it is any other day. Life will go on after this. The After part worries Domeric, though, probably more than it worries Father. Domeric is not sure what to really do with a wife or at least how to act around one. The longest relationship he had ever actively seen was between Lord Redford and his wife. Aunt Barbery’s husband died during the Rebellion and Mother had died long ago, Lord Redford is the only real example he has except for stories and the few comments Father made about Mother. Even then, those comments were not always useful.

When Father spoke to him last night after the feast, the topic of the bedding came up. That was one area Domeric did not think that Mother would come up, but Father surprised him

“I always enjoyed it with your mother, you know. She was always so quiet, she never cried out.”

Domeric did not need to know that. Domeric has been with women before. Has explored pleasure houses with Lord Redford’s sons and fellow knights. He has seen them move and pant under him, sometimes over him. He liked that a lot better than the thought of some silent statue under him. He might get one, though. Domeric has never been with a highborn maiden, but he knows they know little of the marriage bed before they are actually in it. He wonders if someone warned Arya what to expect. Mayhap the Lady Sansa or Lady Wynafred stole into her room the night before to whisper of her own wedding night. He can picture that better than Lady Catelyn or Arya’s old Septa telling her what to expect. Or maybe no one told her and he would have to explain. He dearly hopes it is the first one.

He is busy trying to think of the polite way of explaining a bedding to a new bride when he notices Father motioning to him. Judging by the annoyance on his face, he has been forced to make one motion too many.

Domeric can feel his cheeks flush slightly, feeling like a chastised child before calling out, “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

He cannot really see Lord Eddard and his daughter in the fading light. It has been getting harder and harder to see even with some of the guests and servants holding lanterns. He wonders if people can see the red of his cheeks and his nerves.

“I, Lord Eddard Stark , Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, come before the old gods. Who waits with the old gods?”

“I, Ser Domeric Bolton, heir of House Bolton wait with the old gods. For what purpose do you come, Lord Eddard?”

“To present my daughter, Lady Arya, for marriage before the old gods. For what purpose do you come, Ser Domeric?”

“I wait to wed Lady Arya. Do you come willingly before the old gods, Lady Arya?”

There is a long pause, long enough that people start to mutter.

“I suppo – I do.” Arya says begrudgingly.

“Then come before the old gods and be welcome under their sight.”

When they get closer he can finally see them and she looks more lovely than he expected. Arya is not ugly by any means, but when standing next to her mother and sister she seems to get lost. Standing before him now on her own now she looks a beauty, even if she is glaring. Her dark hair has been left partially down, allowed to flow down her back, some it braided back in a Northern style. The deep blue of the roses in her hair is shocking. She wears a simple gown of white lambs wool and combine it with her own coloring of dark hair and grey eyes and pale skin, the roses stand out. The snow settles in her hair, glittering, combing with the roses to give her a crown. A winter’s princess with a crown of snow and roses.

Lord Eddard takes his daughter’s hand from his arm, yet still holds it, “Do you take Ser Domeric of your own will, daughter? Does anyone here threaten to harm you should you not wed?”

Arya snorts at that, but answers all the same, “I take this man…willingly.”

She near whispers the last part.

“Ser Domeric do you take Lady Arya as your bride of your own will? Does anyone here threaten to harm you should you not wed?”

_Father would kill me._

“I take the Lady Arya as my bride of my own free will. None here wish me or mine harm.”

“Then kneel as one in the eyes of the gods.” Lord Eddard puts Arya’s hand in Domeric’s and together they kneel before the heart tree.

Domeric is not sure what to pray for, he is distracted by how warm Arya’s hand is in his. It is not as soft as he expected either. They are not as rough as his or any knight he knew, but it was clear she did something other than embroider and pray. He wonders what she is praying for. For him to die? For children? For love? To go home? For him to love her?

He prays they can be happy. He prays that he will be able to return South to continue to ride in tourneys. He prays that he can be a good mentor for Rickon. He prays that adding two Starks to the Dreadfort will add some life to the keep.

They rise when bid and she faces away from him. This is an easy task. Take her maiden cloak and replace it with a cloak from house Bolton. A direwolf on a half white, half green field faces him. Little seed pearls have been sewn on to it with silver thread. It sparkles in the light. Domeric reaches around Arya and unties the knot that rests at her collar bone, he admits that it is not very easy to do so when he can not look at the knot. He can feel her pulse against his wrist. It gives away the nerves she seems determined not to show.

He takes off her maiden cloak and hand it to her father before going to replace it with Bolton cloak. It is bright against her white dress. The cloak they use for marriages is made of heavy wool dyed prink. A flayed man was embroidered upon it in red thread, making it stand out. Rubies surround the body, sparkling in the fire light.

Arya turns back to face him, her expression somewhere between controlled anger and neutral. The crowd lets out a cheer when he lifts her up to carry her to the feast. They apparently have not noticed how rigid she is. Her stony silence is deafening amongst the cheering and the revelry. He tries to find words to say to her, but find none. He hopes he finds the words when they sit at the feast. If the gods are good he will find them before the bedding.

As he, they, leave the Godswood he offers one last prayer.

_Please do not let this silence be what our marriage is to be made of._


End file.
